Highland Mist by Rose Burghley

But she was conscious of the most extraordinary irritation because he could be so critical with her, and with her mother he was so smooth and suave. Why, he hadn’t even helped her off with her coat when they arrived ... but he had made quite a ceremony of doing that very thing for Celia!
    “You didn’t catch pneumonia last time,” he remarked curtly.
    “No, I know.” Her tone sounded slightly abject. “But that was because you looked after me so well!”
    They stood in the doorway of the summer-house, and the skies emptied themselves of a short, sharp storm. The surface of the loch—blue as a blaze of larkspur only a few minutes before, and as unruffled as a mirror—became turbulent as an exposed sea, and the frenzy of the waves that rose up and hurled themselves upon the shore astounded Toni. They actually were waves, several feet high, and if a fisherman had been caught in this squall he would have been lucky if he got back to land without a spill. But—because fishermen are usually weather-wise—there were no boats on the loch, and no disaster occurred.
    Suddenly Toni shivered. With the going in of the sun it had turned very cold, and she had left her coat inside the house. She was wearing a fine wool dress that was not nearly adequate to protect her against that sudden lowering of the temperature, and Euan saw her shivering and was quick to remove his coat and put it round her shoulders. She protested at once, but he spoke to her sharply, as if she was a child.
    “If you won’t wear suitable clothing you must have it reinforced. I’m not in the least likely to catch a chill.”
    She could smell the faint scent of tobacco that rose up from his coat, and in the midst of a feeling of confusion because once more he had had to put himself out on her behalf—and, incidentally, deprive himself of a warm article of clothing because she was so exceptionally fragile—she knew a most comforting sensation of pleasure because of the warmth of the coat and the promptness with which he had offered it.
    Although, as she realised afterwards, he never offered things; he just did things according to the sudden need, or what he considered to be the sudden need.
    “I expect the sun will be out again in a minute,” she said, her teeth still chattering just a little. “It was so warm when we arrived.”
    “You mustn’t be deceived by a burst of sunshine in this part of the world,” he remarked critically, as if she was the type who could be deceived by anything. “These are northern latitudes, you know, and not the South of France. We never know when we’re in for a cold spell, or even a hard spell, despite the season. I hope you’ve brought some sensible shoes as well as those thin things you’re wearing,” looking down disapprovingly at her hand-made shoes of softest leather, that had cost Celia quite a lot of money, and were advertised in the glossy magazines as “Ideal for country walking”.
    “Oh, yes.” She looked down meekly at her shoes. “I’ve brought brogues.
    “Well, that’s something,” he admitted grudgingly. “And if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to start off exploring this place I’d have advised you to put the Wellingtons on this morning.” A scud of wind and a flurry of rain came in at the summerhouse door, and he saw her draw his coat around her. He put an arm across her shoulders and kept it there protectively. “You’re such an inadequate person, somehow,” he remarked, frowning above her head. “About as substantial as a windflower. I hope that fellow Henderson will look after you properly when you’re married to him.”
    “Married to him?” She put back her head quickly against the warm softness of his thick sweater ... that had probably cost more than her shoes, for nowadays he looked the part of the man who had inherited money.
    “Yes.” He was staring almost serenely at the loch. “I said that’s what you would do, didn’t I?—marry him. And your mother’s got it